Fragmentary
by ectodreaming
Summary: Two broken musicians may find the pieces they're looking for.
1. part i

**Fragmentary**

* * *

"Tonio?" Francis peers down at his fellow teacher assistant. He furrows his eyebrows and tucks his blonde hair in a tiny ponytail, noticing the everlasting dark circles rimming his friend's eyes. "No sleep again?"

Antonio smiles apologetically and shakes his head, wringing his left hand as an explanation. This time, Francis shoots the Spaniard a pitiful smile. Besides his family and friends back in Spain, only a handful of people know about Antonio's carpal tunnel syndrome—an irritation to his median nerve that causes the tingling and numbing sensation of his left thumb, index and middle fingers. Unfortunately, because he has let this go on for years, the only way to cure it now is surgery.

And God knows that he isn't rich enough for that.

As a teacher assistant, they only make about twenty-four thousand dollars each year, more or less. And the average cost for carpal surgery and therapy is about twenty- _nine_ thousand. Where the _hell_ , excuse his language, will he get that money? He's already living in a cheap apartment, carpools with Francis to the high school, and _still_ he doesn't have enough money. After all, he pays for his food and lodging and other necessities—so he truly doesn't have enough to save.

He stares at his left hand, a longing growing stronger in his chest, and Antonio sighs. Curl carefully, bend at the wrist. Count to five. Four. Three. Tw—Antonio sucks in a sharp breath when the familiar tingling shoots through his hand before numbing his fingers momentarily.

"Here," Francis hands him a blue ice pack that he piously carries each day for Antonio, although Antonio had repeatedly told him not to bother. The Frenchman would always place the ice pack in the freezer of the lounge, where he would rush to get it whenever the Spaniard needs it.

"Gracias," Antonio sings with a bright smile on his face. He's the perfect picture of happiness, but it's evident in Francis' eyes that his friend is struggling, continuously losing himself to the misery that the carpal tunnel syndrome has imposed upon him.

"So, how's the new apartment?" the Frenchman asks, sitting back down across from Antonio. He crosses his legs and rubs at his beard, "No problems?"

"None at the moment," the Spaniard tells him. He doesn't want to tell him how useless his left hand could sometimes be, what with the dropping of cups or abrupt weakness and numbing or jagged pain when he sleeps at night. But he _does_ tell him of his mysterious neighbor. "My neighbor's a musician!"

"Oh?" asks Francis, raising his eyebrows in sincere amusement. They greet the other teachers and teacher assistants that file into the room for lunch. "What kind? A singer? Guitarist?"

"Pianist," Antonio answers eagerly. His eyes finally seem bright after what feels like forever, and Francis urges him to continue. "He plays a lot of great pieces! I only recognize some, like Beethoven's Sonata… uh, M-Moonlight Sonata," Antonio stammers while he racks his brain for the pieces he recognized, "and more sonatas. But he usually plays grave and slow pieces. They're all beautiful."

"Interesting," Francis comments. "Although he sounds… well, kind of creepy. Judging from the stuff he plays. Mysterious and creepy."

"He's probably just a genius," sighs Antonio while he stares at the top of the ice pack, down to his fingers. "And lonely. Geniuses are always lonely."

Francis hums, watching Antonio with sad eyes. Twenty-five minutes later, the bell signals the end of their planning period, and Francis places the ice pack back inside the freezer.

* * *

"That's the tenth one, right?" Gilbert laughs.

Lovino scowls at the other owner of the bar-and-liquor store. They may be friends, they may be co-owners of the same damn shop, they may be future in-laws, but that does _not_ mean that Gilbert Beilschmidt isn't an annoying piece of shit. "Shut up."

"Damn, Vargas, hahaha," he continues to laugh and beat his fist against the bar counter, and the Italian glares and tightens his jaw. "Aw, don't look like that! You might scare away your new neighbor!"

"Shut _up_." It may have worked, but Gilbert covers his mouth and laughs behind his hand. Lovino moves so that his fist makes the German lose his breath—just for a little while. "Yes," he admits through gritted teeth, "it's the tenth one."

Gilbert begins to organize the liquor into their designated spots, still chuckling underneath his breath. "Same reason?"

"Why else would they move?"

"Well, for one," the older male starts and he glances at Lovino's audacious gaze. He rolls his eyes, "You're kinda rude."

"Fuck you."

"You swear a lot, too."

"As if you don't!"

"Well, princess," Gilbert laughs again, "why don't you help this awesome guy with organizing these alcohols, eh?"

"Don't call me _princess_." But the smaller male sets to work anyway, playing with the idea of his tenth neighbor likely moving out within the month. He heard that his new neighbor is a teacher's assistant—which would mean that his neighbor might want to have some peace and quiet at night, trying to grade papers or some shit like that.

Oh well, they can always move out if they get fed up with his performances.

* * *

 _CRASH!_

The sound echoes in his silent apartment, and Antonio stares helplessly at the third mug he ruined. He wonders why he even uses his left hand at all, since it normally brings him more harm than good—but he can't help the feeling of wanting to use it, wanting to make it _useful_ and normal. Back to its pristine condition. Back to when he could play his guitar.

He leaves the pieces on the floor with a tear-filled gaze, and he grabs his pack of cigarettes before heading out to his balcony to smoke. He doesn't smoke often—but, shit, that's the only stress reliever he can think of. That's the only stress reliever he can _do_. He isn't allowed to use his old outlet, guitar-playing, and—

"Haaa," Antonio exhales loudly, planting himself on the edge of his balcony and attempting to put his legs through the spaces between the balcony railings. He can't. Pressing his forehead on the cold palings instead, he slowly lights up a stick and takes a long puff.

God, this is so—! He doesn't know what to do with himself! Who is Antonio Fernandez-Carriedo without his guitar? What _is_ he without his guitar, his passion, his heart, his _life_? Fucking _damn_ it! That's the one thing he actually fell in love with, and he can't even do anything about it; not without the surgery.

Antonio loosens his left fist and notes how weak it feels. He takes another puff. Why did he ignore the signs? The stupid symptoms? Maybe he could've prevented it years ago, maybe he could've saved his hand, maybe he could've been playing his guitar. But now; he's facing the possibility of atrophying his left hand's muscles, of destroying his hand forever.

He sighs again when he realizes that he doesn't even own an ashtray.

Antonio looks down at the streets of Baltimore, watching the silhouettes move past the apartment complex. Life seems monotonous without music. Black, grey, white. Hushed. Impassive, that's what it is.

But suddenly, he hears something.

The music notes.

At first, the notes hide behind the faint sounds of the busy city, but then it grows in volume, flowing like the waves of the ocean—filled with so many sensations. Smooth but hard, gentle but fierce; it's astonishing how they all just blended nicely. Antonio closes his eyes and taps the head of his cigarette stick on the surface he's sitting on. He's a third of the way done. He takes another drag.

His neighbor plays really well. What's he playing now? Perhaps a piece he composed himself?

And since when did Antonio decided to think his neighbor is a _he_? For all he knows, his neighbor may have been a woman—an unmarried, middle-aged woman who plays amazingly but inconveniently.

Although, he isn't complaining. Man or woman, middle-aged or elderly, he's glad for the delightful company at nights when he can't sleep.

* * *

 _Too many people_.

Breathe.

Look to the right, look to the left.

 _Too bright_.

Look up, breathe.

Look straight ahead, BREATHE.

 _They're looking at me, shit, BREATHE Lovino_.

His fingers won't move. His lips are trembling. He wants to laugh.

 _BREATHE—move your fingers, just focus on your—BREATHE—you're shaking_ —

Lovino snaps his eyes open in alarm, heart beating rapidly in his chest. His breaths are short and fast, as if he's having the panic attack from his dream. When he reaches up to rub his eyes, his hands are cold and clammy and he suddenly gets the urge to puke.

He runs to the bathroom, bare feet hitting the bitter floor, and heaves as soon as he thrusts the tip of his chin into the opening of his toilet bowl. Lovino stays like that for a few moments before he lets go and wipes at the corners of his mouth.

"Fucking hell," he swears. There are tears in his eyes. "Fucking _hell_." His pulse is up, and he breathes. _Breathe_. Pulling his knees to his chest, he presses his forehead on his knees and wraps his arms around his legs. _You're okay. I'm okay._

What the hell is wrong with him? There aren't any people in the room—it's just _him_.

"There isn't anything scary," Lovino chastises himself with scorn. His voice is gentle, but his tone is hard. "Why the fuck are you so anxious all the time, eh?"

He lets go of his legs and stretches them in front of him, patting his cheeks with his dank hands and hoping that his heartbeat would slow the hell down.

Damn it.

Carefully pushing himself up from the tiled-floor, Lovino heads to his kitchen. Bit by bit, his chest feels lighter and he can breathe easier, but his mind returned to its apprehensive state and Lovino wonders if he can truly handle this alone.

But he can. He knows he can.

This performance anxiety is just another type of phobia. Whether phobias are cured depends on the individual, in his opinion. And Lovino _will_ overcome this fear one day. It isn't like he hasn't tried before. He tried to perform in front of his family, in front of his friends, in front of a known audience. Yet so far, his efforts are futile, only rearing more panic attacks and anxious thoughts.

He'll overcome it though. He just needs more practice.

But he needs wine right now.

* * *

"You've been drinking."

"I'm not drunk, if that's what you're implying," Lovino shoots back in plain irritation. He fixes the buttons of his black dress shirt, tucking his shirt to make himself look classy and rolling up his sleeves to his elbows to make himself look even classi _er_. "You know I'm not a lightweight."

Gilbert rolls his eyes, though he agrees. The Italian has a high tolerance for alcohol in comparison to a lot of drinkers, and it may be because the kid drinks a glass (or two or three) of wine each day. Although it's always obvious to Gilbert whenever Lovino drinks. The brat becomes more vocal, more _loose_ , dare he say it. "Just treat the customers properly. Don't be rude."

"No worries," Lovino waves him off. He grabs a cloth from underneath the bar counter and wipes its surface. "I know how to handle people," he says, but the German chuckles under his breath. He gestures for Gilbert to fix the stools by the bar, "Make them look presentable."

"Yeah, yeah." Gilbert slides onto a stool and checks his watch. "I'll be leaving soon to pick up Liz. You sure you can handle this stuff 'till evening?"

"Shut up, Gilbert. I can handle this until evening."

"Just makin' sure. You get weird when you're drunk."

"I'm _not_ drunk."

"Tipsy then," Gilbert pauses and slides off the stool. He doesn't look at the younger male. "And Lovino?"

"What?"

"If… there's anything that bothers your psycho-genius mind, you can let me know, alright?"

Gilbert leaves before Lovino could say thank you, but they both know he wouldn't have said it anyway.

And that's okay.

* * *

Antonio sits by the railings again that night, but he doesn't hear any music.

It's strange not hearing the mellifluous notes dancing in the air. It's strange being left alone with his own thoughts. It's strange that this silence is so _deafening_.

So he sings.

But his voice sounds _strange_. Maybe it's because he hasn't sung in a while. Maybe it's because he's smoking at the same time.

He sighs; without the charmingly grim lullabies from his next-door neighbor, he doesn't think he'll be able to sleep tonight.

* * *

No.

 _No_.

That doesn't sound right, it sounds terrible, it sounds like _shit_. It _is_ shit. Angrily fisting his hands in his hair, Lovino slams his elbows on the keys and glares wholeheartedly at the damned composition.

So many wrong notes, wrong accidentals, wrong wrong _wrong_.

It sounds so _wrong_.

Disgusting—they call him a fucking prodigy? He can't even make any decent pieces! He isn't up to par with geniuses like Mozart and Debussy and fucking Chopin. They made great movements with their talents; _masterpieces_ around the same age as he is!

They call Lovino a prodigy, but he can't even play in front of _anyone_.

This time, he roughly thumps his hands on the piano keys, grimacing when he realizes that he might have hit it too hard and might have to check if the notes are still tuned.

"Sorry," Lovino mumbles, staring at the piano.

 _I'm so sorry._

He picks up the unfinished music and crumples it in his hands, sighing heavily before tossing it to his trash can.

* * *

Sometimes Antonio plays the guitar. He tries to mimic the pieces that his neighbor plays, simply because he likes to practice how well he can hear and identify the notes and their pitches—but his left hand is becoming weaker each time he holds his instrument and it's almost hard to wrap his hand around the neck again.

That doesn't stop Antonio from using his left hand though. Even though he hardly puts stress on it, Antonio tries his best to keep it well. He doesn't want his muscles to waste away. Not now, not ever.

Once he has enough money to pay for his surgery and therapy, he'll make sure to play as soon as he recovers. He'll play his favorite pieces and he'll sing a lot and he'll tell his family and friends and play for them too.

He just… his left hand weakens, and Antonio places his forehead on the side of his guitar, back bending down as if to hug it.

The Spaniard sighs shakily.

He worked so _hard_ to master the guitar. He isn't like those prodigies or geniuses who can easily pick up anything and master them in a short amount of time. He played and studied the guitar dutifully, twenty years (though the past few months were kind of terrible because of the diagnosis), every single day for at least a few hours because he enjoys it _so much_. He fell in love with the guitar, its sounds, its shape, its _everything_.

The mere idea of performing again—in front of all those people—makes his chest swell with yearning and eagerness to _play_.

All he needs to do is earn the money for the surgery and the therapy, and he'll be okay.

He clutches the neck of the guitar with his left hand, takes a deep breath, and starts Beethoven's _Moonlight Sonata_.

* * *

There are times when Lovino can hear some notes echoing his, and there are times when it is clear that the notes he hears are not coming from his fingers.

He hears it from his new neighbor, a being he hasn't seen since the poor soul moved next to him. It's been a little over a month, and still, Lovino and the peculiar individual haven't met face to face. Perhaps they've met through music—Lovino hears him sing sometimes, and he's quite certain that his performances wake him up many times a week.

But that's—is he playing some kind of… _tarantella_?

Wait, what the fuck, is his neighbor an Italian too? Or Spanish? Lovino can't really pinpoint which language his neighbor uses when he sings…

And what time is it? 1:08 in the morning? Doesn't he have to go to school tomorrow for his shitty teaching job?

Lovino doesn't play until the music suddenly stops and he's taken out of his daze. For a moment, he wonders if his neighbor stops because he's frustrated. And so he continues to play, just to fill the unnatural silence in their apartments.

He doesn't know why he feels okay to play, why he isn't getting panicky, even when he knows that his neighbor might be listening.

* * *

Antonio decides to take on a part-time job at a local music store in Baltimore two weeks later. It's easily accessible, because of the efficient, though a little crowded, public transportation. Luckily, there's a position open for a part-time worker—which he'll be applying to soon.

For now, he wants to check out the shop's guitars.

The shop is a nice fit; not too big, but not too small. Wide. Guitars on the right, pianos next to the guitars, drums and a few selections of band instruments to the left. The violins are showcased by the counter, and Antonio imagines the cellos being stored in the back, past the tiny practice rooms. The shop is a little empty—only a few customers, browsing through the music books and other accessories.

He inhales deeply. Exhale.

There's always a scent to new things: new books, new clothes, new shoes. New guitars aren't so different. They're all industrialized, but it's really up to the owner to personalize his properties. Or, well, according to Francis. He walks down the guitar-slash-piano aisle, sends each guitar adoring looks and examines the material, the color.

Following his urge to play, Antonio picks up the fourth guitar down the row, a pretty acoustic guitar with a shiny body. He's delighted when he finds a stool at the very end of the aisle, and the musician sits on it, placing the bottom of the guitar on his lap and his left hand around the neck.

He runs his fingers down the neck, eyes bright with excitement. It's always so nice to play with a new instrument! A new guitar! One that smells of raw wood yet has the smoothest, shiniest surface.

What shall he play? Just one song, since he still has to apply for his job, and what if someone is already applying to it? Antonio thinks it's okay though, because he gets to play with this guitar for free, and his hand feels normal— _gracias a Dios_ —and he can _play_.

What does he play? Oh, there's a lot! He can play Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata again, or he can play his original songs, or he can play the stuff his neighbor plays! Or or or—he can—well, no, he'd rather not sing, because it has been a while since he sung wonderfully, and he'd rather just let these other people listen to lovely music than his odd singing voice.

So he adjusts the strings of the guitar to play something easy and fun, Lecuona's _Malagueña_ , and hopes to God that his hand wouldn't go numb today.

When he's finished, the customers and the employees applaud, and he hears a soft slam of the door before he can even leave the stool.

* * *

Lovino puts his hands in his pockets with tight lips. His green eyes glare at the bright lights of the streets.

It was supposed to be a normal evening. But he got the stupid phone call telling him about the arrival of his ordered musical pieces and he just _had_ to go to the damn music shop, where he was greeted by a damned musician _performing_ in front of the people.

Not only was the bastard performing, but he was also really fucking good, and—like, what the fuck, he was playing Lecuona! In front of people!

That's probably what made Lovino stop and stare and listen. He only saw the back of the performer's head, but that's really enough to make Lovino stop. Anyone who performs is always better than him; because they can actually sit there and _play_.

But, hell, it makes Lovino so envious of them. He wants to be like them too; he wants to perform in front of people too; he wants to play and make people happy too; he wants to hear appreciative applauses instead of worried whispers too!

He swallows thickly and takes the music sheets from under his arm before heading home.

One day, he'll perform without any fear and anxiety and negative emotions.

…One day.

* * *

"But what about your T.A. job?" asks Francis when Antonio tells him about his other part-time job. They're heading to Antonio's apartment, to grade papers and all those teacher junk they have to do, and maybe have a little drink.

Antonio's smile falters a little, "I'm not letting it go… I just need a little more income."

"For the surgery?"

"What else?" Antonio laughs, and he wrings his left hand gently. "It's fun though, the part-time job."

"What do you do, anyway?"

The Spaniard smiles brighter again, and he looks out of the window, at the blurry surroundings. His future looks like that, he muses, _blurry_. He chooses not to tell Francis about playing the guitar more regularly now, because the Frenchman will surely tell him off. "I just help people out with what they need. It's really fun, especially when they ask for recommendations of pieces they should buy!"

"You're such a music nerd," Francis teases, rolling his blue eyes. "How's your hand doing?"

"Okay," Antonio replies. There are some nights when the pain shoots up in his arm and keeps him awake until his alarm goes off. But his neighbor's music soothes him, puts him in a peaceful mood despite the lack of sleeping relief. "I still wake up here and there."

Francis is silent. The musician thinks that he can sleep before they reach his apartment complex, but then his friend tells him, "You'll get your surgery soon."

And Antonio merely hums, eyes already closed.

* * *

There's a new worker at the music shop.

Lovino knows because he frequents this joint, and he's back the following week to receive another set of new music scores he ordered.

The new worker looks up from a piece he's studying, and his wide smile almost blinds Lovino. Usually, he earns himself timid smiles, or gentle smiles, not _this_ type of damn… smile. "Good evening! How may I help you?"

His heart beats fast, because that's his usual reaction to strangers, to people in general, and his palms grow sweaty. "Vargas," he starts and tries to keep his face nonchalant. "Lovino Vargas—I'm—I ordered something. Four music scores?"

"Ah, yes," his eyes are bright, focused on him. And Lovino feels like he's breathing too much, breathing too heavy. The man moves away from the counter. "One moment, señor." He wants to tell the bastard that _no he is not Spanish_ , just because his last name is Vargas, and that _no please no Spanish_ because he speaks Italian. But, most of all, he just wants to breathe normally.

He fiddles with his hands, taps his foot on the ground, tries to distract himself to prevent another oncoming panic attack—because he really can't take any more panic attacks and he doesn't have time for therapists and really why does he need to see a doctor anyway? It isn't like he can't handle his anxiety.

Eyes wandering aimlessly, they land on the piece that the worker was observing. Chopin's _Nocturne in E-Flat Major, Op.9 No. 2._ Huh, not a bad choice.

"Yiruma," says the worker. Lovino then shifts his eyes down to the pinned plastic nametag on the chest. If he's to work here, the Italian might as well know his name.

Hmm, _Antonio_. Spanish.

"Thanks." He's about to take the scores when they drop suddenly on the counter, and his eyes widen in surprise. Lovino looks up at Antonio, and he stares back weakly.

"Sorry about that," he laughs, quickly pulling his hand back and hiding it behind his back. "Slipped, I'm really sorry."

"It's fine," Lovino tells him. He forces a polite quirk of his lips. "Thanks."

"No problem."

He leaves with a lighter feeling, since he'll be able to play a couple of new pieces tonight.

* * *

It's weird that Antonio still hasn't met his neighbor. It has already been two months, and with his neighbor's apartment located at the very end of the hallway, he thought that they would have a few encounters when he could introduce himself, comment on how great his neighbor's skills are, and get to know his neighbor better.

At least, he can safely refer to his neighbor as a _he_ because Antonio would sometimes see clothes left to dry outside in his neighbor's balcony.

Anyway, with his extra income, he's able to save a little bit more for his surgery and therapy. The thought alone makes him smile, and he stares at his left hand.

A tap on his head gets Antonio to stop daydreaming, and he looks up at Francis.

"Have you eaten yet? You look like you've lost weight," Francis tells him. "I made croissants for my third period and for the teachers in this lounge. You should try it."

Which certainly means that he should eat it.

"Okay," Antonio accepts the golden croissant offered to him, and thinks back to the past night. His neighbor's playing new pieces. More modern, he should say. Although, he doesn't recognize the composer—unless he made it himself! How wonderful!

"How does it taste?" Francis probes him, placing the lid back on the tupperware. "I made sure that I put a lot of that really creamy cheese in them, because everyone seems to enjoy that cheese."

"They're delicious! _Muy delicioso_ ," Antonio tells him happily. It is! It's very creamy inside and soft and chewy outside, and it's really great! Maybe a little fatty, but very good!

"Do you want the recipe? I know you cook and bake sometimes," the Frenchman says.

Antonio laughs, "I only make paella and churros."

His friend rolls his eyes. "Oh please, you're a great cook."

"I'll take the recipe if you're offering."

"Good. Maybe it'll make you a little fat."

* * *

"Your neighbor is still there?"

"I know," Lovino deadpans, and Gilbert laughs loudly, "I can't believe it either."

"The ninth tenant moved within three weeks, and the fifth within a week! The longest was, what, three months?" Gilbert asks. "And they can't make you move out, because you give the owners free alcohol—and they like your music."

"They're nice people," the Italian comments. "Easy to bribe and please."

Gilbert agrees and tosses a cleaning cloth to Lovino. "Wipe the tables."

The radio stops the silence, faint but upbeat, Lovino wiping the tables clean and the German arranging the alcohol selections once again. It's a comfortable silence, and there aren't a lot of customers yet because the sun hasn't set, and the people here find it more fun to drink when the sun's out.

"I haven't met my neighbor yet," the Italian remarks. He straightens and stretches his arms over his head. "I leave and come back before he does, so I never really see him. Seems like a busy guy."

"Maybe he's too busy to pack up and leave," jokes Gilbert. "How do you even know he's a guy?"

"A lucky guess," Lovino shrugs.

But it's because he can hear him sing sometimes. Silky and melodious, something Lovino wouldn't mind listening to every day. And he can't help but think that his voice sounds familiar.

* * *

"Lovi, welcome back!"

"It's Lovi _no_ ," Lovino replies.

Aw, he looks so cute in his brown jacket and red scarf! How Italian! "New scores?"

"What else would I be here for," he states, and Antonio notices the restless fidgeting appearing with his red cheeks.

He smiles to ease one of his regular clients—one of his _favorite_ clients. "Maybe visiting your favorite worker, because I know I'm you're favorite!"

"Shut up," frowns Lovino, but he just continues to turn redder. Antonio smiles and pulls the pieces out for Lovino, handing it to him.

"You should let me hear you play," Antonio tells him.

"No."

The answer is short and brisk, accompanying his tone and features, and Antonio decides to drop the subject. Lovino is glaring at him. "I feel like you'd know my neighbor. He plays piano too, and he's really good."

"Probably not. I'm not good." He's closing in on himself, crossing his arms over his chest with the new pieces trapped between them.

"I'm sure you're amazing," Antonio tells him with a gentle smile. Lovino steps back.

"I'm going."

"See you next time!"

* * *

Lovino enters the shop a few days later.

"Lovi!"

"My name is Lo-vi- _no_."

The Spaniard only laughs. "But Lovi's cute, right?"

"No."

* * *

It's automatic: how Antonio's heart would jump each time the door opens and signals a new customer (is it Lovi?), how Antonio would feel deflated if the Italian didn't come and visit him (aw, where's Lovi?), how Antonio would feel extremely delighted if the musician did come and visit him (Lovi~!).

It's cold today, and Lovino didn't visit. Lovino never visits after seven in the evening. He usually picks his music up around five or six o'clock—and, anyway, Antonio didn't get any orders for new scores this week. Yet. It seems like Lovino is upping his music library or something because he's buying new pieces more regularly—according to his co-worker.

"Loverboy ain't here today," laughs Keisha, a thirty-something African-American woman with a nice big afro on her head. She pulls back her lips to show her white teeth, and her dark eyes are glinting with mischief. "Missin' him already?"

Antonio laughs to hide his embarrassment, but he should know that whatever he says won't change Keisha's mind anyway. "What are you talking about?"

"Boy," she starts, rolling her eyes, "I know attraction when I see it. And you," Keisha gives him a look, "Like. Him."

"Well, yeah, I mean." Antonio shrugs. The door opens and his pulse speeds up. "He's nice."

It isn't Lovino.

"No, like, _like_ -like," Keisha states. She turns to the customer, same bright smile on her face except without the mischief, and proceeds to help out the elderly client.

Antonio breathes a sigh of relief. He doesn't know what to say to that.

* * *

It's ridiculous, really, how the Italian orders new music scores every week now. And the music he orders? He's already played them at one point (or a couple) in his life, and he honestly doesn't know why he continues to order new music when he can listen to the music on Youtube and figure out the notes himself. Doing that is easier, more fun, and definitely cheaper.

So why does he come back to the shop every week? And the weather is getting colder, for god's sake!

The musician doesn't precisely know, and perhaps he _does_ know but he just pretends he doesn't.

 _Thank you for your purchase!_

Lovino slumps in his chair and sighs heavily.

There goes another order.

* * *

"Yiruma?"

Antonio watches as Lovino nods once, fingers twisting together. Either the Italian can't wait to play or he's simply jittery, but Antonio can't tell, and he doesn't want to ask because Lovi might leave a minute too early—and the Spaniard definitely _does not_ want that.

"So how are you?"

It pauses the fiddling, and Lovino actually gives him a tiny, a very, very tiny smile. "Fine." He leaves a few moments later, just when Antonio was preparing to ask another question.

* * *

"A-and you?"

"Hm?" Antonio slides the new pieces across the counter, watching the Italian.

"How are you?" Lovino asks slowly. He takes the scores with cold hands. "You asked, and I said I'm good, a-and you—how are you?"

The Spaniard laughs, because god he's _so cute_ , and Lovino blushes some more. "I'm great, thank you."

"You—nevermind. I'm leaving, damn it," the Italian grumbles, and Antonio wonders if he said something wrong when Lovi almost runs out of the shop.

* * *

Antonio drops another fork on the kitchen floor.

* * *

He likes Yiruma's pieces, although… he can't fully classify his compositions in the classical category. It's more of the contemporary classical type, or the new classical. A mix of the old and modern. Or something like that. It's quite refreshing to play his pieces. _Kiss the Rain_ , _It's Your Day_ , _Poem And Like A Poem_ …

The patterns and repetitions are prominent, but Lovino finds them endearing as if Yiruma is weaving different stories and perspectives from one idea, one theme, into a single work. It's quite lovely, and he… he wants to perform this… in front of someone. Perhaps, Feliciana… or Antonio—though why he thinks of Antonio is beyond him.

He probably got sucked into Antonio's charms, like all the other customers and people he meets. Stupid Antonio.

Staring at a blank piece of music composition paper, he absentmindedly plays a tune with his hands with a pencil between his teeth to create and match notes. He's inspired to write music, to arrange one, but he doesn't know what he wants to write about. He doesn't know who to write this for. Feliciana, for being such a good sister? He writes about her too much. Nonno? The Beilshcmidt brothers? He doesn't particularly like nor hate them.

Antonio?

His ears feel warm, and then his face heats up, and he stops playing the melody he made up. Maybe he should play some Debussy for now. Or Bach or Bartók. Ever since Antonio—ever since he played _Yiruma_ , he's been feeling a little flimsy and clumsy. He daydreams about different things, not about his typical grand performances, and it's just—no, _no_.

It isn't like he's going to play for Antonio anyway! So what's the point in making a song for the bastard?

Although the thought of playing for Antonio doesn't seem as scary anymore

…which scares him a little bit.

* * *

It's frustrating. So, so frustrating. Sleepless nights in his lonely apartment, and his guitar can't seem to bring the happiness it used to bring him. Each time the Spaniard picks the instrument up, he worries of the numbing and uselessness of his left hand, the abrupt stops of the music, the cliffhanger of the notes.

It's so frustrating how he can't seem to easily earn the money he needs without working himself to the bone.

And there's no music tonight. Not from him and not from his neighbor.

He's alone tonight.

* * *

Bending his tan wrist, he grits his teeth and awaits the discomfort. It doesn't come until a moment later, and he exhales shakily when he finishes counting to five.

* * *

The Italian dreams of performing again, and he wakes up with dry tears on his cheeks and a fast heartbeat.

* * *

Sharp, the broken glass slices into his thumb and Antonio doesn't notice until he sees a drop of blood trickles down his slender finger.

And his left hand is still numb.

* * *

There's some tranquility around Lovino that feels infinite when he plays, but when he stops or finishes, the Italian feels his heart go rampant in his chest, and he doesn't know why he

Can't.

Breathe.

 _SLAM!_ "Fuck." _SLAM SLAM SLAM!_ The notes go haywire while he slams his fists again and again on his piano. "Fuck," Lovino cries while he covers his face with his trembling hands.

 _Why can't I breathe?_

* * *

When Francis comes back with a box of pizza from Domino's, he's alarmed to see Antonio crying.

Events like these are rare, always rare, because Antonio doesn't like crying. Antonio doesn't like anything negative. So when he cries, Francis knows that something, somehow, broke through the Spaniard's nearly steel-like walls.

Francis places the pizza box in the backseat and when he gently asks _what's wrong_ , Antonio cries harder.

* * *

"Come on, the crowd will _love_ you," urges Gilbert. He takes Lovino's hand in his, begging with his dark red eyes. He knows about Lovino's stage fright—is one of the only ones who know about it—but he never mentions it. However, like tonight, he attempts to help the musician overcome it. Just a little. Even by a hair.

"I know they will," Lovino says, but his eyes are unfocused and his hand is clammy and his voice is weak. The German knows he's anxious, knows he's _scared_ , but right now he simply wants to bash his head against Lovino's and yell _why are you so scared_. But he doesn't and he never will, so Gilbert merely tries again.

"No."

"Lovino—"

"I'm fucking _trying_ , okay?" His eyes are bright. Gilbert sees the quiver in Lovino's lips and he drops his hand, biting the inside of his cheek.

"Okay."

"I'm fucking trying," Lovino says after a moment of silence, voice soft and choked. "I'm really fucking trying."

"Lovino, it's o—"

"But it isn't working." It's only meant to be a breath, just to _breathe_ , but Lovino cries and shakes all over, sobs into his hand because he doesn't know why he can't move when he's in front of an audience, why he can't can't can't _can't_. "It isn't," Lovino cries harder, tries his best to stop sobbing, "i-it isn't _working_."

* * *

Antonio drops his cup on the ground. Some students in the hallway glance at him, and he smiles bashfully.

Thankfully, it's plastic and the container is empty. But that's enough to send him to the faculty bathroom to compose himself.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Inhale.

Exhale.

The exercises he does help reduce the frequency of his symptoms, keeps them at bay, but that doesn't guarantee that he'll be able to cure them. The physician who diagnosed him had mentioned that he may be on his way to severe carpal tunnel syndrome and _why did you let this go on?_

As soon as he was diagnosed, he decided to hold off his initial plan of becoming a pro-musician to figure out how the hell he's going to get money for surgery. His doctor had told him that he could try exercises that may or may not cure him, and may or may not prevent a trip into the surgery room. His doctor also told him to come by any time Antonio feels something unconventional in his wrist and hand—but Antonio can't pay for all of those checkups. Maybe if he feels like there's something terribly wrong, _then_ he'd get a checkup. (Though that'll be like repeating his mistake from years ago.)

Luckily, by getting his teaching assistant job, the school will be able to pay for some of the cost. Although it helps, it doesn't help him _a lot_ , what with all his loans to pay and shit like that. But still, the school helps—he just needs to earn a little more.

He leaves the restroom when the bell rings, and forgets to grab his things from the lounge.

* * *

The night is cold and the rain is potent, but Antonio can't sleep and he can't hear any music coming from his neighbor. So he smokes outside and sings a song his mother composed for him, sings it with the falling drops of the rain since he thinks there's something amiss in his voice—that maybe it's his smoking that's affecting it.

Antonio takes another drag. Once his hand is fixed and he's recovered, he'll go back to his old smoking habits, or quit it altogether. He sighs. There's a bunch of papers he didn't feel like grading sitting on his dining table, and he might get in trouble if he doesn't grade those by Friday. He pushes his left hand in his red fleece jacket, gaze moving to the balcony on his left, the balcony of his mysterious neighbor of four months.

The clothes left out to dry are soaked with rain, and he wonders how his neighbor would react. Upset? Weary?

But then, the door slams open and his mysterious neighbor turns out to be not mysterious at all.

" _Lovi_!"

Lovino glances over his shoulder, turns back, stops, and looks over his shoulder again. Disbelief dances over his unguarded expression, and he grabs all of his soaking clothes before completely turning towards Antonio. In his cute tomato pajamas, he moves to the edge nearest to Antonio, and the Spaniard does the same with a large smile.

They spoke at the same time:

"You're my fucking neighbor?"

"I didn't know we were neighbors!"

Lovino stares at him, and Antonio smiles, until Lovi says, "You smoke."

The Spaniard looks at his right hand and laughs a little. Everything is much brighter tonight for some reason. "I do."

"Didn't peg you to be a smoker."

"It's not really my thing."

They stare at each other; Lovino's heart is beating fast—but Antonio will never know. Likewise, Lovino will never know that Antonio is more than elated to see him.

"You play well."

The smaller man purses his lips, but slowly thanks his neighbor. He knots his eyebrows. "Don't you have work tomorrow?"

"At the store? Yeah. Afternoon," Antonio answers. "Stopping by?" He leans his elbows on the railings, watching as Lovino slightly moves closer to the edge, closer to him. His eyes can't stop smiling. The rain is pouring even more now, but it receded into the backs of their minds—despite Lovino's wet laundry and the wet platforms underneath their bare feet. There's a thin wall of falling rain in between them as well, making some of their features blur together.

"What about your other job?"

"Oh, you mean the teaching job? Yeah, I have that, too."

"Hm."

They stare again, yet there isn't any uneasiness between them; it's effortless to stare at each other in a rainy night like this, when the world is quiet and everything feels calm and they're alone together. Lovino is the one who steps back first, mumbling something about sleep and job, and then he says _good night_ and shuts the door with sodden feet.

It's later that night when Antonio realizes that he never mentioned his teaching job to Lovi.

* * *

"My neighbor's the bastard Antonio."

"Ve, you mean the Antonio you talk about?"

"Is there anyone else?"

Feliciana giggles from the other end of the line. Lovino scowls, heat rising to his cheeks. He eats his lunch and checks his watch to see how long he has left before his break ends. "Oh, Lovi—"

"Whatever you're thinking, _no_."

"But Antonio—"

" _No_."

"…Can I visit you, at least?" The pout is clear in her voice, and she knows that her older brother can't resist her no matter how he tries.

"If you even dare try to get Antonio to hang out with us, I am going to piss on your fucking wedding cake."

" _Fratello_!"

"I warned you."

* * *

"My neighbor?" starts Antonio excitedly as he slides into Francis' red Honda civic, "Lovino."

"You mean your _customer_?" Francis asks. He laughs when Antonio nods. " _Mon Dieu!_ "

"I know!" Antonio laughs as well, rubbing at the side of his face. He pulls down the sun visor mirror in front of him, grimaces a little at his unruly hair, and uselessly runs his fingers through them. "I couldn't sleep last night because I was so—I don't know, happy I guess!"

"Happy?" hums Francis with a shrewd smile, and Antonio gives him a look.

"What's with that smile?"

"Nothing," Francis slides his sunglasses from his nose up to the top of his head when they enter the Baltimore Harbor Tunnel. "I think you like him."

"I've never liked anyone…er, like that. I don't remember, anyway."

"I know, but," Francis shrugs. He glances at his friend. "A first time for everything, right?"

"…right," he agrees slowly.

* * *

The next time they see each other is when Lovino stops by at the store to pick up another set of scores. _Yiruma_ again, Antonio notes.

"So all those pieces these past weeks," begins Antonio while Lovino shyly glances at his eyes. Lovi rubs at the corner of his mouth with his right hand, nervous, anxious— _but why_ , the Spaniard wonders faintly. "Yiruma?"

"Not all," he replies. "But most." He's stepping back and back and back. Antonio wants to reach out; he doesn't know why he wants to keep Lovino here. Protect him or something.

"They're beautiful."

"I know."

"You play beautifully."

"…I'm not going to play for you."

* * *

"So you play the guitar," Lovino muses when they meet again at the balcony. It's almost frequent now, how they meet at night—around midnight or one o'clock in the morning. "I'm glad your other neighbor hasn't moved out yet."

Antonio laughs, because he understands why he jokes about it—so many tenants before him have moved because of the Italian's ill-timed practices. "Yes, I play the guitar. And I'm not sure if my other neighbor moved out or not."

At that, Lovino smiles. But he stares ahead, into the dark sky of the city. They're sitting at the edge of their railings, the edges closest to one another so that they can talk and mumble all they want, without bothering the other residents, without leaving the tiny world they unconsciously created.

"Why?"

"I hear you sometimes," Lovino bites his lower lip and shifts his legs closer to his chest. Damn, it's cold. The snow is falling from the sky now, just as the weather forecast predicted, and clouds of warmth leave their parted lips.

"Do you like it?"

"It isn't bad."

Antonio chuckles again. "But it isn't good?"

"I didn't say that." A pout suddenly appears on Lovi's lips, and Antonio can't help the weird fluttering in his stomach because Lovino is so _cute_.

"I want to play for you."

His eyes widen and he opens his mouth to object. But no words leave and, instead, he nods. Antonio smiles brightly and moves back inside his apartment to grab his guitar. It's then that he remembers his difficulty in playing, what with the progressing weakness in his left hand, and he thinks that maybe he should postpone it—but Lovino is outside and waiting, and surely he'd like to listen to the fluency of his skills? Because he sure as _heck_ loves listening to Lovino play the piano.

 _Something easy, something easy_ , is what his brain tells him—but his emotions are all over the place. He wants to impress Lovino with his techniques, his smooth transitions, his calm shifting, his voice that once sounded like honey. He wants to impress Lovino with everything he's got—though it appears to be impossible with his deteriorating hand muscles and his affected vocal cords.

He exits into his balcony with his guitar in his right hand and sits down facing the other musician. He moves the guitar to his lap and adjusts the strings. "I think you may like this."

Lovino smiles all the same; the Spaniard doesn't know how or why Lovino became a little more animated, but he is and Antonio's happy. If he's the cause, then he'll keep doing whatever he's doing.

There is no rain tonight. Just the lights in the city, the stars bashfully shining in the dark night sky, the faint buzz of traffic in the background. It's perfect: an empty slate to put the notes on.

Antonio looks at Lovino, suddenly conscious of what he's doing, of how bright Lovino's eyes and smile are, of how hard and fast his heart is beating, of how nervous and excited he's feeling. He begins to play without any warning, and Lovino listens. Antonio shifts his gaze between the neck of the guitar and the other male's expression.

Surprise, doubt, more surprise, and finally… adoration?

When Antonio finishes, Lovino claps subconsciously, eyes warm. "I knew you were playing some tarantella a few months ago."

* * *

Sometimes Antonio stops playing in the middle of a song. Lovino has a suspicion as to why, but he asks anyway.

"I get _really_ into it sometimes and stop playing," the Spanish musician explains with an airy laugh. He doesn't look at Lovino.

It's ridiculous; they both know that's ridiculous. But he tells Antonio that he's just being stupid.

His fingers slipped and dropped and went limp.

* * *

Lovino's eyes light up whenever Antonio tells him that he's going to play the guitar for him. They're bright and oh so green, and his smile is soft and sweet and eager and Antonio just wants—

Antonio just wants… wants…

…he doesn't know.

But Lovi's smile is just so nice and Antonio likes to see it there. All the time.

* * *

Is this how it feels like to have someone want to play _for_ you? Is this how it feels like to have music dedicated for you? Lovino wonders that when Antonio tells him he's going to play a song, a piece, _anything_ for him.

He doesn't, he can't, he won't stop the smile present on his lips.

And Antonio smiles back.

* * *

"It's really cold," Antonio mentions, biting his trembling lip and glancing at Lovino. It is a week before Christmas, a week before winter break, and a day filled with snow. They flutter gracefully down from the dark sky, landing softly on the edges of their balconies, on top of their railings. Like a white blanket, the snow covers the city and nearly makes it silent.

"I know," mutters Lovino. He glances back, shyly, and opens his mouth to— _sneeze_?

There's this strong urge to jump across the balcony and wrap Lovino in his arms, but instead he asks, "Should we go inside?"

Lovino looks away and shrugs. "I guess." He sighs and begins to stand up, gaze still turned away while he fixes the blanket around his shoulders. "Good n—"

"My place?" Antonio swallows, because he doesn't know what made him do that and he doesn't even know what they'll _do_. All he knows is that he's wanted to invite Lovino over multiple of times now but he chickens out at the very last moment. Every. Time.

The Italian— _not_ Spanish, Antonio learned a week after they met at the store—blushes and stares between his socked feet. He's thinking, Antonio knows thanks to the slight pout of his lips, and the Spaniard wonders if he's pressuring Lovino by asking such a… such a question.

"If you want to," he quickly adds, hoping to catch Lovino's eyes—they're green, a different green from his—before they really have to bid good night.

"I—yeah, that would… be nice," Lovino finally manages to say. His cheeks are red, and he keeps fumbling with the edges of the blanket. "N-not that I like talking to you or anything! I just…"

His heart is thudding in his ears. Antonio can't stop smiling.

"I just… like to hear you play."

* * *

It's getting easier to play around Antonio, although he would never do it when Antonio is in his apartment. No. Never.

Antonio is using his kitchen on Christmas Eve when he hears a clatter of utensils dropping and thumping against the sink, against the floor. Lovino jumps up from the couch and runs, eyes darting worriedly around the room to check the damages. He sees the knife on the ground, along with a shattered bowl and splattered tomato juice, some other stuff in the sink and Antonio staring at his left hand feebly.

"Hey," Lovino's voice is tender and his steps are cautious, though Antonio jumps all the same. A hollow laugh escapes him, and his green eyes dart from side to side, to and from Lovino's face. "Are you—"

"Not okay." He shakes his head, laughs a little to himself. "Definitely not okay."

"Okay," a pause, "alright. So it slipped?" Lovino is willing to let the situation go if Antonio doesn't want to talk about it.

"Sure. It slipped."

Antonio doesn't want to talk about it.

* * *

It's difficult when he likes a music prodigy. It's difficult because he doesn't know how to impress geniuses like Lovino. It's difficult because he doesn't know how to make geniuses like Lovino happy.

He knows Lovino is sad. It shows in his music; he mostly plays pieces in minor key signatures. The emotions are so _tangible_ in his playing, Antonio can _feel_ the music as if the notes are hugging his body, caressing his face and—there are many times when he listens without Lovino knowing, and he finds himself crying without a reason.

Honestly, he's been crying a lot lately, and he figures that perhaps it's because of his hand, his money, his debts, his guitar—maybe the gloomy weather, maybe Lovino.

Although really, will a prodigy like Lovino ever feel the same emotions he's experiencing right now? Will a prodigy like Lovino ever want to play for a meager musician like Antonio? Will a prodigy like Lovino ever ever _ever_ be amazed and impressed by someone like Antonio?

It's difficult when he likes a genius and forlorn prodigy like Lovino.

* * *

Sometimes Lovino plays a little longer into the night. Sometimes he doesn't even come out into the balcony.

But Antonio is always outside, waiting. For something. For anything.

Many times, the Spaniard can't sleep because of the pain that shoots up his arm. But he's close, kind of, to reaching the amount for his surgery and therapy. Just a few more… couple of thousands of dollars. And he's close, kind of, to Lovino.

So he's waiting.

* * *

Lovino knows he won't meet with Antonio outside their balconies tonight because he has to cover for the bastard Gilbert and he feels bad because—because, w-well, stupid Antonio is probably going to wait outside all night like he usually does. And then wake up with dark circles or something ugly like that.

But he sees Antonio in his bar-slash-liquor-store and his heart may have done a weird twisty thing while his stomach made that… whatever that was.

He wants to hide but show off, and his breaths are faster because Antonio's companion is looking at him with a gross smile and _really_ , what the fuck is going on? He isn't performing but he can feel a panic attack coming, so he runs to the bathroom and remains there for a good ten minutes.

Shaking hands, trembling lips, stuffy head, constricted throat. His knees are wobbling and it's taking him a great deal of strength not to collapse on the floor. He turns the faucet on and washes his face with cold, cold water, and—

"Lovi?"

Lovino swallows loudly and he turns the faucet off. He takes a couple of tissue papers from the dispenser and wipes his face slowly. His hands are still shaking and his knees are still weak. "Antonio," he almost whispers and he clears his throat, dropping the towels to the trash can. "Hi."

"You okay?" Antonio, in his loosened tie and messy teacher-attire, steps closer while Lovino steps back, right knee almost buckling. He hits the back of his hip against the sink.

"Fine," the Italian laughs. No, he's definitely _not_ fine. He laughs a lot when he's nervous, has an urge to do so because of the nerves compelling his body to do the shittiest things like faint or shake or laugh at everything. "How about you?"

He wants to get out. He wants to be alone. Why can't he be alone? But Antonio steps closer and closer and closer, and Lovino can't move out of the way anyway because he's already trapped by the stupid sink, and Antonio places a hand against his cool forehead. His hand is warm. Calloused. He moves his face closer to examine Lovino.

"You don't have a fever," Antonio says after a moment.

"I'm _fine_."

"But you—"

"Antonio, please."

The Spaniard purses his lips in thought. He lets his hand fall down to his side and he leans back on his heels to give his neighbor some space. After a moment, "What's wrong?"

"I'm fine, Antonio." He is. Just a little. Maybe Antonio being here actually helped reduce his level of anxiety—but maybe Antonio's _also_ the cause of his high level of anxiety. Or his friend with the weird smile.

The Spaniard wants to ask something, he's moving his lips to form a couple of words, but in the end, Antonio doesn't ask anything and they merely stare at each other.

The air surrounding them is different yet the same as it usually is as if they're up in their balconies watching the city. This time, however, Antonio is truly seeing the cracks he has imagined in Lovino's personality. Yet he doesn't know if they're of loneliness, or something else, or a combination of everything. It's true that he can't accurately read people, but he can usually get away with just a halfway understanding of a person's character.

"So," Lovino starts, and the shaking of his hands and knees are almost invisible. His green eyes are trying to erase the traces of the events from earlier. "What do you like to drink?"

Antonio goes along with the subject change, because he remembers every time Lovino lets him slip whenever his hand goes weak. "Beer. It's cheap."

The Italian rolls his eyes and moves past the taller male. "Alright."

"Wait," Antonio grabs his wrist before Lovino can leave the restroom.

"What?"

God, he wants to let Lovino know that he can tell him anything, _anything_ , that's bothering him. But he thinks that the musician will close himself back in, hide the cracks like the expert that he is. "You work here?"

"Yes." His eyes are almost amused. Almost.

"So, is that why sometimes you're not out in the balcony?"

"Sometimes."

Antonio lets go of his wrist and follows Lovino out of the bathroom, the loud music fighting against the loud thumping of his heart in his ears.

* * *

 **A/N:** I hope you guys enjoy this! I've already finished the story (finally), but I had to cut it into two parts so it wouldn't be too long! Constructive criticism is very much appreciated! Thank you sosososo much! :*


	2. part ii

**Fragmentary**

* * *

When Antonio and Francis met Gilbert for the first time, they immediately clicked. So there are times when Lovino sees the two bastards with the German bastard, early on a Saturday morning, at the bar. Eating breakfast. Before the bar even opened.

"You two aren't supposed to be here."

"Oh come on, Lovi," Antonio pouts, because he likes to act cute around Lovino.

" _Mon cher_ , don't look so down in the morning."

"If you two would kindly leave the—"

"Lovino, don't be a killjoy."

"Shut the fuck up, Gilbird."

"Aw, Loviii," Antonio drawls out his name—excuse him, _nick_ name—and Lovino frowns at the three child adults.

"I'm not cleaning up after you." He moves behind the bar, avoiding the three and especially Antonio because he just feels _weird_ and he thinks he likes Antonio? The thought makes his heart pound—he hopes no one in this goddamn bar can read minds because he'll be screwed over—and his face flushes, and suddenly Antonio is leaning over the bar— _too close to Lovino_. "W-what the fuck is it?"

"You're red, Lovi," Antonio presses the back of his hand on Lovino's forehead, then to Lovino's red cheek. "Fever?"

Unlike Antonio, Lovino is very aware of the curious looks that both Gilbert and Francis are giving them, and if only Antonio isn't such a distracting piece of—piece of— _ugh_ —then maybe he would've delivered his majestic fists to them. But Antonio is very distracting, and Lovino is very red, so he can only stumble over his words while the Spaniard compared him to a tomato. Again.

* * *

Lovino started playing the piano when he was 3 years old, mastered the instrument around age 5 or 6. He easily played pieces like Nikolai Rimsky-Korsakov's _Flight of the Bumblebee_ and pieces he still plays today. He was able to create assemblies of music, which he used to play for his family. He remembers the first performance, one of the only performances he successfully brought, and the memory brings a small smile to his face.

Everything was glowing that day: the lights, the piano, the music, the people, _himself_. He loved performing for the audience, he loved performing in general. He performed a lot during that summer before entering first grade. He loved it.

He doesn't really remember what exactly caused it, but Lovino suddenly hated playing in front of people. Music stopped being a bridge. He fell. And he couldn't—he just can't do anything.

It was during his first grade, Lovino thinks, when he just… lost it? The stares, the whispers, no one talked to him. No one wanted to. Furthermore, Lovino wasn't interested in the things his peers fawned about. The latest cartoon? No thank you. Pulling a joke on the old teacher? Not interested.

The young prodigy was more interested in things like history, why the world worked this way, politics, how things were made. So he poured everything he had in learning—science, art, especially music—and fostered his isolation even more.

By third grade, he shook up each time he had to perform.

Lovino hasn't successfully performed in front of anyone since.

* * *

Antonio tries out his voice because his left hand doesn't need any more stress and Lovino isn't playing tonight.

The high notes are becoming harder to reach, although he can still reach them. On the bright side, he can also still sing sweetly and smoothly in the somewhat high notes and lower notes.

And on a much much brighter side, he can tell that Lovino likes his voice especially when Antonio sings for him.

* * *

"Ever thought of becoming a pro-musician?" Antonio asks Lovino. It's one-thirty in the morning sometime in the third week of January. It's cold, so cold, but they're outside in their balconies, watching the city with a mug of hot chocolate trapped in their hands. They're wrapped in their thickest sweaters, thickest scarves and socks—both not accustomed to the cold winters of the Northeast. After all, they're from the south of Europe, where everything's nice and usually sunny.

The Italian musician doesn't answer; he simply blows on his mug—well, it's actually the Spaniard's—and Antonio wonders if Lovino even heard him.

So he continues, "You're really good! And I'm sure you can make your own—"

"No."

There's a tone in his voice that causes Antonio to turn towards him, eyebrows furrowed. "I'm sure you can though," he argues in a softer timbre because there's a look in Lovino's eyes that makes him sad.

His eyes are turned away, hurt, upset, troubled—it's as if some pieces of Lovino's self are falling apart. Antonio keeps silent and brings his cup to his lips before his left hand goes limp and spills the contents on his jacket. The liquid is hot but it doesn't make any contact with his skin, and all he can think of is _oh, again?_

"Are you okay?" is Lovino's involuntary question, and when the Spanish musician looks back at him, he sees worry and curiosity—but there are so many cracks. He can see it. So many but so well-hidden.

"Fine," Antonio answers. He smiles and uses his other hand to absently wipe at his jacket. "I'm fine."

The Italian doesn't ask, and Antonio doesn't say anything.

* * *

He wants to ask about the bastard's hand, but he doesn't like prying into anyone's business _and_ Antonio looks like he doesn't want to tell him what's going on anyway.

* * *

So it's February, and it's the fourteenth of February, and Antonio knocks on Lovino's door because the Italian told him earlier at the balcony that he has a day-off today, but he's greeted by a lovely girl with pretty amber eyes and Antonio thinks, _Lovino has a girlfriend?_

But how is that possible? Lovino doesn't talk about any girls—well, he never mentioned any girlfriends or partners—and the Italian is almost always busy. How would he even have _time_ for girls?

"Buongiorno," she greets in a sing-song voice, and then the Spaniard realizes that maybe Lovino has a girlfriend from Italy—and this is probably her—and maybe he should just cancel whatever he planned today?

"Hi," Antonio's smile shrinks as the beautiful female blinks up at him.

"Ve," she pauses and steps closer; Antonio leans back on his heels. "Are you, by any chance, Antonio?"

"I—si, I am." He furrows his eyebrows together. So Lovino talks about him? To his girlfriend?

Suddenly, there's a huge smile on her face and she pulls Antonio down so that she can kiss both sides of his face. "That's great! Lovi, Lovi, Lovi~"

A stab of jealousy hits his chest, and he immediately feels dislike towards this girl. Lovi? That's _his_ nickname for Lovino. She can't just—she can't just use it! But Antonio reluctantly follows her into the apartment he's memorized, and he feels another stab of jealousy because he realizes that this girl also knows where everything is.

She pushes the door open and Lovino is just in his boxers. Antonio's eyes widen, Lovi's eyes widen—and then, the Italian male is swearing and yelling and throwing pillows (which Antonio caught and the little Italian girl dodged), and the girl is giggling and Antonio can't help the smile on his face.

Lovi is so cute.

"Er, so what's your name?" Antonio asks when he's pushed to a dining chair. He smells pasta (hm, so his girlfriend knows Lovi adores pasta?) and the petite female begins to make her way towards the stove.

"Feliciana," she sings. "I'm—"

" _Feli_ ," growls an angry and slightly embarrassed Italian while he stalks inside his tiny kitchen, glaring at the girl, then switching his gaze to Antonio. "What the fuck are you thinking?" he asks in Italian.

The Spaniard's eyes are locked on Lovino as he speaks—reprimands?—Feliciana; his voice is a tad lower when he speaks in his native tongue, and somehow, he's a lot… handsomer. Sexy, even. And Antonio turns his face away because why is he thinking Lovi is sexy when he's just cute and nice and all the good things in the world?

A heavy sigh interrupts his borderline-frantic thoughts, and Lovino goes, "This is my sister, Feliciana. She's engaged, so don't try anything."

Antonio can't tell Lovino how relieved he is that Feliciana isn't his lovely girlfriend from Italy.

* * *

"Lovi likes you a lot, you know," Feliciana says to Antonio while they wait for Lovino to buy a couple of ingredients from the market. (The Spaniard ended up having to cancel his plans today, but he doesn't mind. Much.)

Antonio glances at the other Vargas. "Really now? Haha," he laughs.

"No, really," Feliciana insists. She turns her eyes towards him. "He always talks about you whenever we call each other." She smiles mischievously and then asks, "Do you like my brother?"

He doesn't know why people keep asking him that, because he doesn't know what to say and he doesn't know what gives them the idea. Not that the idea is bad or anything—it's just, he doesn't know.

 _He doesn't know_.

Lovino comes back at that time, and he gives the two a greeting glare and gestures for them to follow him back to his apartment.

* * *

The Spaniard hears a soft kind-of jazz later that night. He deliberately loosens his grip as he sits up in his chair. That's odd—is that really Lovi who's playing? The notes are nice and smooth, as usual—but this— _this_ has a different tone. A different feel. A different vibe.

It sounds familiar, but he can't recall the title of the piece—it sounds like a song.

He hopes that it's Lovino playing—and if it truly _is_ the Italian musician, then… Antonio doesn't finish the thought; he doesn't understand what he's feeling.

The song ends, and Antonio faintly hears Feliciana giggle, and he wishes he can be with Lovino too.

* * *

"Just play. Any song. Short. Anything."

His chest is tight, and he wants to cry, and his hands are shaking, and his sister is asking him to _play_. But Lovino wants to play, wants to perform, but he can't; not when his eyes are watery and his breaths are short and every part of him is trembling. He can't

He can't breathe.

"Ve, Lovi…"

He's suffocating.

It's not just him who's affected by this stupid stage fright. His family is also affected—the music practically fled their home when Lovino stopped performing all those years ago, and still… now… he can't.

Not now.

Maybe one day.

 _But when will it be?_

"It's okay, Lovi—you don't need to—"

"I'm going," inhale, exhale, "to play." Lovino glances at his sister with teary eyes; his heart is beating so fast, and he feels faint. "I'm going to play," he chokes on the words but he poses his hands over the keyboards.

Feliciana nods and stands back, to give her brother some space. She'd love for him to get over his performance anxiety, and she'd love it if her brother could play for her during her wedding day. But she knows it will take time, and she's willing to support his brother no matter what, no matter how long.

The notes begin silently, stepping into the air cautiously and ever-so-slowly, like dipping your toe or your foot in water to test the temperature, but it makes Feliciana smile and cover her mouth since it's been so long since she's seen her brother play—it's been so _long_ since she's seen and felt and heard his music.

And even though he's only playing the piano version of the song _Dream A Little Dream of Me_ , she's so so happy that her brother is playing. Because in that short moment, Feliciana saw Lovino Vargas as the older brother he used to be.

* * *

"I didn't know you had a sister," Antonio tells him a week later.

"The topic never came up."

Which is true; not a lot of topics about their personal backgrounds come up. For all he knows, he's been conversing with an Italian gangster for nearly half a year.

"Let's change it."

"Change what?" Lovino asks. He yawns and rubs at his eyes. His shift today was a little tough, especially because there were a lot of those tiny business celebrations today. It was a little hard manning the bar by himself. His bar-slash-liquor store has started to gain more attention since the past summer; he should probably post those hiring posters soon.

"How we don't know anything about each other."

The Italian stares, the taller male smiles, and then Lovino is blushing, mumbling; abruptly becoming a cute mess with many broken edges.

And Antonio likes it, hopes to fill and heal the fractures that the Italian keeps from everyone.

* * *

 _CRASH!_

* * *

Tears.

* * *

Breathe.

* * *

"I can't do this. I _can't_."

* * *

He doesn't see Lovino for a couple of days, and he hears fraught music coming from his neighbor for the next few nights.

The Spaniard can't sleep.

There's turmoil somewhere.

In both of them.

* * *

Lovino digs his fingers in his arms, moves them up to his head to claw at his scalp. His eyes are frenetic as they dart from the keys of the piano to the papers around him. There are tears dripping from the corners of his eyes, and he doesn't know why he's feeling like this.

Desperate.

Helpless.

 _Useless_.

His thoughts lead him to more scratching and gripping, as if to rip his skin off. They're red, and he lets out a stifled sob. He hates his music, he hates his talent, he isn't great, he's useless, so so useless and talentless. He isn't good for anything.

Lovino lifts his chin up to the ceiling, trying to bring the tears back into his eyes and stop his unnecessary crying. And then he hears Antonio—singing, playing his guitar.

The bastard is singing some Spanish song; the Italian listens and finds it easier to breathe as soon as the music starts to surround him and his apartment. Lovino doesn't leave his flat even though he assumes that Antonio is waiting as usual, but he sleeps on his couch listening to the Spaniard's pleasing voice and guitar-playing.

* * *

"Lovi!" Antonio greets when they run into each other two days later. He steps closer, too close actually, but Lovino doesn't move back.

"Antonio," he greets with a tiny quirk of his lips. He called Gilbert to let him know he's going to the bar a little late—what with his headache and all. "Morning."

"Where are you heading?" the Spaniard asks, following Lovino down the staircase of the apartment complex.

"The bar," the smaller male answers. "You? Isn't it a little late for school?"

"No school today, actually," Antonio replies happily while he jumps from the last three steps and lands beside Lovino. The Italian tries not to chuckle at his (cute? adorable?) childishness.

"Gonna meet up with your friends?" asks Lovino, vaguely wondering why Antonio is following him—a-and he minds, damn it! He's just… he feels bad for not meeting the stupid idiot at the balcony these past few nights!

"Actually, I'm going to buy some groceries, drop them off, and go to work later," Antonio informs him. They head to the bus stop, since neither own cars—well, Lovino has a motorbike, but he's too lazy to use it today and he likes taking the bus anyway—and they stand by the bus waiting bench.

The Italian hums in response, and Antonio keeps the conversation going.

"Are you feeling alright?" he asks. He shifts his weight from one foot to another, and he laughs at his own awkwardness. Like a little boy with a crush! "I'm just worried, and stuff…"

"Fine," he says with a lift of his shoulders. "And you?"

"Fine," Antonio echoes. They never look at each other when they say it. "Just fine."

* * *

"Don't you get nervous?"

"Huh?"

The winter season is finally ending, but the temperatures are still a little low, so they're wearing their fleece jackets outside in their balconies. No more snow, no more freezing rain, thank _god_.

"Nervous," Lovino states, "Do you get nervous?"

"With what? Teaching?" asks Antonio, turning his head towards Lovino and placing his right cheek on the side of his guitar's body. His eyes are tired and droopy, but he's been looking like that lately, especially since the end of the third marking period is near.

"No…"

The Spaniard watches as Lovino builds an invisible shell around himself, and he blinks lethargically as the Italian makes his question.

"Do you get nervous when you, you know, perform?"

Antonio smiles in a sedated manner, "No. Not really. Maybe in the beginning."

"…and then what happens?" Lovi's voice is soft and small, and Antonio closes his eyes to partially reminisce about the feeling of performing and to partially fall asleep.

"And then," Antonio yawns, wide and big like his grin, "I just play. I get into my music, I get sucked into it, and I just play."

Lovino doesn't say anything for a while. In fact, it takes a long time for Antonio to realize that the Italian isn't going to say anything anymore.

"And then," the Spaniard continues and startles Lovi. "When I'm finished, I hear the applause and… I don't know. I feel happy. And I want to play more."

"I know… uh, that feeling," Lovino mumbles. "Sort of."

Antonio forces his eyes open, and his smile turns bright and proud. "So you've performed?"

"Kind of," the Italian looks away, blushing. Or maybe he's cold. Lovino turns red when he's too cold or too hot.

"Aw," Antonio watches the other musician turn his gaze on him. He catches it lazily and says, "I wish I could've seen you perform."

"One day," Lovino blurts out and he looks away again and covers the side of his face with his hair. "One day."

"I'll count on that," the Spanish musician hums. They stay like that for a little while: silent and warm above the cold, lively city.

"We should go to sleep—h-hey, Antonio. Antonio? Fuck, are you kidding—An _tonio_!"

* * *

Antonio doesn't play for a month.

* * *

"I have a question," Lovino initiates. They're out in their balconies again. They found that in their balconies, they can be in their little worlds, supporting each other—coexisting without knowing what is truly happening in the other's life. The railings that separate them act as a physical and emotional barrier to their deepest thoughts, setting them apart from any potential crossing over of ideas and whatsoever.

But Antonio tried to cross it, many times. It's never completely successful… yet it's never completely fruitless either.

So Lovino's going to attempt. Right now.

"Shoot," Antonio says as he tunes his guitar.

"Um," pause, "your hand—your left hand, what's… wrong?"

There's a falter in the Spaniard's movements, but Antonio carries on as if the question doesn't terrify him.

"It's fine."

"I…" Lovino pauses again because he sees a terrible anguish present in the normally sparkling green eyes. "…see."

"Yep," laughs Antonio. He doesn't look at Lovino. "What do you wanna hear?"

In fact, the Spaniard doesn't look at Lovino for a while.

* * *

The Italian hears a faint crash one morning as he's leaving for work. But it didn't come from his apartment. It came from Antonio's.

He quietly walks to his neighbor's front door and presses his ear against the door. Everything is silent. Lovino wants to help, to knock on the door, to do _something_ , but he knows Antonio wouldn't want him to know.

But why? Musicians get injured all the time; there isn't anything to be ashamed of!

Then again, why is _he_ hiding his stage fright from Antonio? His anxiety?

With that thought set in his mind, Lovino forces himself from the front of Antonio's door and heads out of the apartment complex.

* * *

The Spaniard doesn't particularly enjoy wine as much as Francis, but he can deal with it. Especially if the wine is from his very handsome and very talented neighbor.

It's scarce: these times when Lovino brings things for him out of the blue, like new guitar picks and calzones—and, tonight, wine and pizza. The weather is bordering warm and chilly, allowing them to stay for longer periods of time outside their balconies, delighting both males despite never voicing them out.

"Here," Lovino makes sure to hand the plate of pizza to Antonio's right hand like he always does when they're exchanging food over their balconies, and Antonio has long been accustomed to it. "It's hot," he warns hurriedly and watches while Antonio places it on the space next to him.

"And red wine," the Italian adds softly, almost mumbles it, and Antonio turns to him and reaches with his right hand. They don't want another thing dropping three stories down (like that time with a piece of brownie Antonio lovingly made for his students and, er, Lovino).

"Di Majo Norante Sangiovese," Lovino says while he pours Antonio a glass of red wine and gives it to him. "2012. It's good."

"You say that for all the wines you share with me," the Spaniard points out, and Lovi smiles wryly, eyes flickering towards the other male before he settles down on his balcony.

"Because it's true."

"Agreed," Antonio replies after he takes a sip of the wine. They eat in silence for a while, both not really hungry, but it's always nice to eat together. There isn't any wind, and the city feels silent, and their world is so, so alluring.

But Antonio wants to cross this barrier between them; and so does Lovino. Somehow, they want to break it, to stop pretending even though it's nice to live in this good-natured fantasy they've been keeping up for nearly a year; somehow, they just want to breathe and face reality; somehow, they just want to do this _together_.

So they try.

After swallowing his bite, Lovino surprises the taller male when he asks, "S-so, I have a question."

Antonio can already tell that it's going to be one of _those_ questions; those questions he can't quite directly answer; those questions he often avoids.

"Go ahead," he replies, though he doesn't think he can answer it.

"Well," Lovi sucks in a deep breath, "um. Don't get offended, but, are you," gulp, "gay?" He's blushing, but he's watching Antonio, and the Spaniard sips his wine a bit too slowly and purposely grates on Lovino's nerves.

"More like…" Antonio finally, _finally_ replies, "bisexual." He smiles towards his blushing neighbor, fighting his own urge to surrender to the very hot heat running up his neck. "You?"

"S-same," the Italian musician answers a bit too quickly, and adds, "I think." He picks up his wineglass and takes a big swig of the alcohol. Lovino wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and starts to ramble a little. "I mean, I don't know. I mean—I _do_ , because I—yeah, um, nevermind."

Antonio laughs lightly. "Have I ever told you how cute you are?"

"S-shut up, damn it," he turns away to hide his face, but the Spaniard can see the tips of his ears turn red.

The older male leans on the wall behind him before taking a bite from the pizza Lovi made. (The Italian does his best to avoid eating the store-bought pizzas.) He sighs in contentment and watches the dark cloudy sky. "Do you have any more questions?"

* * *

"Play with me tomorrow night, Lovi," Antonio tries again. A few weeks ago, on top of his teaching job and part-time job at the music store, Antonio started his job as an irregular entertainer at Gilbert and Lovino's bar. He enjoys it thoroughly (and Lovino kind of enjoys it, too).

He doesn't think about it when he says, "Only if you tell me what's wrong."

"What?"

"There's something wrong."

The Spaniard doesn't know what Lovino is talking about. But Lovino is adamant and he can't—he doesn't know how to explain what he wants to know. What he wants Antonio to tell him. "What?"

"There's something wrong," Lovino repeats, shaking his head and staring at the Spaniard. At his hand, at his left hand. Antonio watches him. "I won't play until you tell me."

"Okay," he says, exhaling heavily. The wails of the police and ambulance sirens echo in the early morning. "Okay."

* * *

"How did I do, Lovi?" the Spaniard asks when he sits by the bar.

It is a known fact that whenever Antonio has a gig at the bar, Lovino would stay and work throughout the night. The Italian thinks he's being very subtle about this (he just _really_ enjoys hearing Antonio play! It isn't like he wants to be around the stupid bastard all the time!), however, everyone else thinks otherwise.

Lovino tries not to smile, and Antonio leans on the counter with an attractive grin. "Not bad."

"I'm glad you loved it," Antonio chuckles. He learned overtime that the Italian doesn't like to openly show his appreciation—unless it's towards females—and he's okay with it. It's part of Lovi, and he adores everything about the cute tomatito.

"It's on the house," Lovi says, like he always does, when he hands the Spaniard his beverage.

The taller male adjusts himself on the stool and wraps his long fingers around the glass. He watches as Lovi tends to the other customers, fumbling with the idea of asking the Italian if he wanted to watch the symphony with him this Saturday. Would he say yes? Does Lovino even like them? What if Lovino has already watched them multiple times? What would he do if he says no?

The Italian flicks his eyes towards Antonio here and there, hoping that the bastard would call for him. Because he's definitely not going to just saunter towards him—even if he feels like doing so! He sighs while he wipes a wine glass dry, wondering why he can't just go up to Antonio and chat with him. Would that be weird? This—

"Lovi," Antonio calls, and the Italian jumps and turns to look at the Spaniard. He's signaling for Lovino to come closer, and his smile looks a little different. Gilbert comes back from his short break, and he sends Lovino to Antonio with a wink, and the Italian blushes when he punches Gilbert in the arm.

Lovino slides onto the stool next to the Spaniard, and he places an elbow on the counter in order to lean on his arm. He gazes at Antonio.

The older male becomes a little uneasy, and he suddenly feels like he hasn't had experience with love, like like he—like—"Do you wanna watch the BSO with me?"

He doesn't say anything for a few seconds, and it's Gilbert's stupid laugh that brings Lovino back into reality. "What?"

"BSO—Baltimore Symphony—"

"I know what the Baltimore Symphony Orchestra is," Lovino snaps, flustered, and Antonio waits. Patiently. Understandingly. "You want to watch it with _me_?"

"If that's—okay…with you," Antonio says, noticing how bright Lovino's eyes became, how green they are. He can't seem to find the words to describe them, or Lovino, really.

"Okay," he mutters, looking away—lowering his gaze to the space between them, "thanks for inviting me."

Antonio waits again, and when Lovino moves away without saying anything else, he reaches out and grabs Lovi's tiny wrist and asks, "Is that a yes?"

"Yes," his face is red, his lips are trying not smile, his eyes are so dazzling, "it's a yes."

"Great," breathes Antonio, slowly letting his fingers slip away from Lovino's wrist. His left hand is being nice to him tonight. He smiles wider. "Great."

* * *

Lovino brings the phone away from his ear, but he can't stop the grin from forming on his face. "Shut up, Feli."

"Ve, fratello, this is a _date_ ~!"

"Shut up."

"What are you going to wear?"

"I don't know."

"Are you doing anything afterwards?"

"I don't know, Feli."

"Okay then! Let's plan this!"

"Please, Feliciana, I don't think we should worry about this."

"Ve, but you're worried about this, aren't you?"

"…Yeah—but—"

"Well, I think you should wear your red shirt—you know what I'm talking about, right? The one with…"

* * *

"He said yes?"

"He said _yes_ ," Antonio nods his head enthusiastically while Francis whistles. "It's this Saturday, and I don't know what to wear." They stop at the stoplight and the Frenchman turns to his friend with a serious expression.

"What did you two agree on?"

"Ah," laughs Antonio, "we didn't talk about that."

"Talk to him about it! Text him, call him—I don't know."

"Uh," the Spaniard laughs again, and Francis almost smacks his friend in the face when he says, "We've never exchanged numbers either."

"My god, Antonio," the blonde shakes his head, smiling at his hopeless heap of a friend, "why haven't you asked for his number? You've been talking with him for, what, a year now?"

"More or less."

The light turns green. Francis steps on the accelerator. "I just can't comprehend how and why neither of you haven't exchanged numbers yet! This is so mind-boggling! It's like… being married but never having sex or something!"

The brunette laughs at the analogy. And Francis is grinning. "We just never had the reason to text or call each other," Antonio says after he calms down. He looks out the window. "We see each other every night anyway."

"In each other's bed, non?"

"N-no, not like that, Francis!"

This time, the blonde Frenchman laughs and turns to the right, entering the school parking lot. "Not yet?"

" _Francis_!"

* * *

Lovino can't stop wringing his hands. He doesn't know what's wrong with him. He's just going to see Antonio. And they're going to watch the Baltimore Symphony Orchestra together. And. And. And. A—

 _Don't panic._

The Italian paces around his living room, goes to his coffee table to rearrange the magazines, fiddles with the tie around his collar, sits on the couch and crosses and uncrosses his legs. His heart is racing, and it's just pounding, pounding, _pounding_.

He can feel the sweat between his arms, and jumps up from the couch to head to the bathroom and checks his reflection for the umpteenth time.

"Damn it, don't panic," he scolds himself, glaring at his reflection. There isn't anything to be scared of. Nothing. Oh god, his hands are shaking. He shouldn't have drank that coffee—but he was so tired, and he couldn't sleep last night, and he needed the energy—

A set of knocks makes Lovino rush to the door, and then he's letting Antonio inside his apartment and he smiles because he doesn't know why he's feeling like this. The other musician notices, and tilts his head in question.

"You look nervous, no?"

"No," he chuckles in reply. He wipes his hands on his pants. "I'm just excited. Drank too much coffee," Lovino explains.

The Spaniard's eyes crinkle as he smiles. He gives Lovino a once-over (more like a twice-over), but it seems like the other musician didn't notice. A red dress shirt and a pair of dark slacks. Italian shoes. A dark coat that suits his pants. "You look stunning."

Lovino's gaze flickers to his form, and a familiar smile enters his expression. Olive green matches his eyes. "So do you." He pats his pockets. His keys and wallet aren't there. He looks up at Antonio, but his eyes are surprisingly attracted at his lips. "You're ready, right?"

"Yup," sings Antonio. The Italian looks away from his mouth.

"Hold on, I need to get my apartment key and wallet," Lovi excuses himself and bolts to his room, but then the Spanish musician calls him back into the living room because he sees Lovino's keys and wallet lying on top of the couch.

"Thanks," mutters Lovino and he blushes strongly.

They leave the apartment complex with their arms brushing, though the Italian pretends that he isn't aware of it at all. The night is warm but a little chilly, and Antonio thinks that it's a perfect night to be out and about. Maybe he can take Lovi out for some late night snacks after the event!

"Am I ever going to get a ride with you on your motorbike?" Antonio asks when they pass the motorbike on their way to the bus stop.

"Maybe," he muses with a smirk. His pulse is normal at last, and he's _breathing normally_ , and he doesn't feel suffocated. Tonight may actually end up being a good night.

They take the bus to get to the Meyerhoff Symphony Hall located on Cathedral Street, and the Spaniard is delighted to find it near many tiny shops and restaurants. There's a place that he has wanted to try for quite a while now, but he can't seem to remember the name. Oh well, he and Lovino can just walk around and figure out what to do later.

"Wow," Antonio breathes as he stares up at the building. It's tall with an interesting shape, a wide cylinder that somewhat slopes down. Brown. Bricked. Unconventional.

"It's better inside," Lovino tells him, waiting patiently with his hands in his pockets as he lets the Spaniard take in the scene. He finds it rather pleasing to see Antonio gawk at things. It's… cute. (Ugh, he thinks Antonio is cute all the time anyway.)

He turns his green eyes towards the Italian musician. "You've been here before?"

"Just a few times," Lovino answers. Alone. He always manages to leave before the performances end.

"You've watched them?"

"Yeah."

As Lovi said, the inside of the concert hall looks more exquisite than it does on the outside. High ceilings and a wide space. Antonio likes it. It appears like the hall doesn't wear any flat surfaces; as if it's too grand for dull planes. The crowd fills the seats around them, all in suave outfits and attires, and then Antonio turns to the Italian.

"Where do you want to sit?"

"Somewhere in the middle. By the edge."

It's an oddly specific yet imprecise request, and it merely adds to Antonio's fascination with Lovino's character. His stare lingers at the younger male, before he smiles and looks around for seats _somewhere in the middle_ and _by the edge_. "I found some," he says after a moment, and pulls Lovino with him. He lets Lovi sit on the last seat of the row.

"Is this the first time you're going to see the BSO?" he asks while attempting to ease himself in a comfortable and natural-looking sitting position. The Italian prodigy thinks that he's sitting too tall, too stiffly—someone is bound to be looking at him.

"Yes, this is my first time! It's really interesting; I don't think I've ever watched a professional orchestra perform," he gushes, but the words don't reach Lovino's ears and all the Italian can do is nod his head and respond with _ah_ and _oh really_ in the appropriate times.

To his surprise, Antonio actually catches on and places a touch on his arm. "Is there something wrong, Lovi?"

Why does the bastard have to be discerning when he doesn't need to be?

"I'm fine."

Lying: it's getting more and more difficult to lie to Antonio, and he's getting sick of it. Sick of lying to everyone. Sick of Antonio asking. Sick of Antonio hiding. Sick of himself.

"…Okay."

Sick of everything.

But he stays in his seat because the show is starting, and he sits straighter to stop feeling on edge. He shakes his leg. He breathes. He coils his fingers together.

The air is cold with incessant whispering coming from the audience. He's reminded of the instances before he began each of his performances. He _knows_ that the people aren't talking about him, but he can't breathe and he can't stop trembling and—no. Wait. He can't think about this right now. This is exactly why he can't finish watching performances put on venues like these. It's too familiar to him.

Too daunting.

Lovino doesn't catch the opening of the orchestra, and by the time he actually _listens_ , the notes have already moved into the awaiting air, warming their ears, twirling in a captivating pattern that allures the audience.

But he is not mesmerized like the ones around him.

He's pathetic.

The musicians onstage are poised, relaxed, terrific—everything he can't be. Everything he used to be. The expressions on their faces show their focus and their satisfaction of playing and performing. They're so happy. They're so comfortable.

And.

He… fuck, he really wants that. But he doesn't like being watched, he hates the being in the center of attention, but he really really _really_ wants to perform.

Lovino is suddenly aware that he's holding his breath. And that his heartbeat is too fast. And that he's—

Breathe.

He can't.

 _Breathe_.

He can't do it.

 _Breathe, damn it!_

With clenched fists resting on his lap, the Italian continues to watch as his mind eats him from the inside. His body is taut, and all he wants is to be alone, and he wants Antonio not to notice this, and god, he wants to—he wants t—

"Lovino?"

His eyes dart towards the man beside him, and he chuckles before he covers his mouth with the back of his quaking hand. "I'm fine."

"Lovino—"

He's shaking so much. But he's so frozen. The music reaches a _fortissimo_. It's ringing in his ears but he can't hear. He's suffocating.

 _Breathe_.

He can't breathe.

 _Please let me move_.

He's so rigid.

 _Please let me breathe_.

He's so pathetic.

"I need to go." He forces his paralyzed limbs to move. Standing on weak legs, he stumbles out of the row and half-runs up the aisle, escaping from the dark room, from the performance, from the people—he's so pathetic, oh god, oh _god_ —

"Lovino!"

He doesn't turn around and he keeps on half-running out of the building, down the street. Where is he? He should've taken his motorbike with him. He needs to be alone to breathe; he needs to breathebreathe _breathe_ and he can't do it when he's out in the open.

He can't do it when there are too many people. Watching.

 _Why can't I breathe?_

* * *

Antonio is bewildered. He doesn't know what had happened that night with Lovino, and he hasn't heard anything from him since. He waits outside in the balcony the next night. And the night after that. And the night after that. And he's still waiting.

He exercises his left hand to relieve the numbing and lights up his third cigarette. What went wrong? Lovino looked shaken up. But why? A traumatic experience perhaps? He appeared anxious. Nervous. But then again…

Now that he thinks about, the Italian has always been a little anxious when they conversed. Not when they are alone though…

Antonio taps his cigarette on his ashtray, Lovino's birthday present for him since the Spaniard permanently forgets to buy it himself. He inhales a little too quickly and coughs loudly, choking on the smoke as tears make their way to the corners of his eyes.

He glances at the balcony next to his and he sighs.

It's still empty.

* * *

"So I'm guessing the date didn't go well," Gilbert comments as the Italian strolls in the bar with a faint reddening to his cheeks that's clearly from drinking. There's a different gait to Lovino when he drinks, and it may be subtle, but the German notices small things like that.

The Italian doesn't speak, and instead moves past Gilbert and behind the counter where he automatically pulls out the old, smelly rug and wipes the counter. The radio isn't on for once, and it only aids in the tense silence.

"You can tell me, you know," he offers. He crosses his arms over his chest and waits.

…Waits. That's what Antonio's been doing.

"I fucked up." Lovino doesn't stop wiping the counter. In fact, he pushes the heel of his hand harder onto the cloth and almost scrubs the surface in frustration. He won't cry. "I fucked up real bad." He moves to the tables and there's a slight quivering in his hands. Gilbert can't see his eyes.

"What happened?"

"I don't…" Lovino trails off with a maddened sigh. He stops cleaning the dustless table, and continues after a second. He goes back to the counter and becomes aware of the stench of his hand. "…The usual."

"And then what happened?" the older male asks curiously. Lovino heads to the other end of the counter to put some hand sanitizer on his hands. He twists his fingers restlessly.

"I ran away."

* * *

Lovino hasn't dropped by at the music store in a while. And Antonio can't stop obsessing over what happened on the night they watched the orchestra.

"Just talk to him," Francis insists as they pulled away from the teacher's parking lot. The school year is nearing its end, and Antonio is almost finished saving up for his surgery and therapy. Just a few more.

"The only times I see him is when he visits the shop or when he goes out to his balcony," he explains, rubbing his eyes tiredly. From the rearview mirror, he glances at their bags containing all the shit they have to grade by Monday. Damn it.

"Just go to him. Knock on his door or something."

"Should I?" The thought makes him jumpy as he's fretful about Lovino's reaction. The Italian will surely get mad. Or completely ignore him. Or both.

"If you're just going to wonder all the time, then do something about it," the Frenchman exhales. "I love you and all, Tonio, but if you want this situation to change, you have to do something."

The musician looks out the window. Should he take the chance? He's genuinely worried about Lovino. They haven't seen each other since that incident, and he doesn't _understand_ why Lovino ran, why Lovino shook up, why Lovino is so anxious all the time.

"You're right," mumbles Antonio. "I should do something."

* * *

The Spaniard knocks on his neighbor's door. _Knock, knock, knock._ Lovino should be in by now, right? Unless he decided to stay at the bar all day.

Sighing deeply, Antonio runs a hand through his hair.

No answer.

He can wait. He's always waiting anyway.

* * *

Lovino ignores the knocks on the other side of the door.

* * *

Saturday. Two o'clock in the morning.

Antonio is getting used to the silent nights, and he hates it. He hates the quiet, he hates the feeling of being alone. He wants the music, he wants his hand to be okay, he wants Lovino to be fine, he wants… he wants Lovino.

He sighs again.

Pushing the top of his pen to his chin, he slides his gaze across the scrawling of a high school student. He can't understand it. He doesn't want to understand it.

Without thinking, he grabs his pack of cigarettes and moves to his balcony. He glances at Lovino's balcony. It's empty.

 _It only takes three weeks to get used to something_ , he muses to himself absently, _twenty-one days, and I'll get used to the silence._

But he doesn't want to. He doesn't want to get used to the silence that's always driven away by music, by late-night talks, by late-night snacks, by Lovino.

He doesn't want to get used to a life without him anymore.

He lights up the cigarette stick.

* * *

Lovino glances at his piano.

Lately, it's been quiet in his apartment. No notes, no music, nothing. Silence lets him breathe. Silence keeps him isolated. He hasn't played his instrument in a while, and doesn't try to. He's avoiding it.

He wonders if Antonio's avoiding music as well.

* * *

" _Do you ever plan to play professionally?"_

" _That's my original plan, yes," Antonio hums, leaning comfortably against the wall while he grazes Lovino's expression with his eyes._

" _What's stopping you?"_

 _It's a genuinely innocent question, but he feels attacked. Antonio curls and uncurls his left hand. "Myself."_

 _Lovino sucks in a deep breath, and he turns away, as if to say_ me too.

* * *

"Do you know where Lovino is?"

"He left a few minutes ago," Gilbert answers while he fixes the sleeves on his arms. The German waves at one of the new part-time employees, a Canadian kid with glasses. Matthew, or something. He's glad that he and Lovino finally hired a few part-timers to help man the bar-slash-liquor store. Their workload has immensely decreased since.

"Where to? His apartment?" asks Antonio, leaning over the counter.

"I don't know," he answers with a shake of his head. "The kid hardly tells me anything." That may be a lie, but Lovino never tells him anything unless it's probed out of him. Gilbert excuses himself to attend to his customers.

"He wasn't home when I stopped by," the Spaniard explains as Gil saunters back. Francis accepts the drink the German got him. "I haven't talked to him since we watched the BSO. Did he tell you that?" He stares at the light-haired German.

Gilbert shakes his head. "Why don't you call him? Text him or something."

"You're going to laugh," Francis assures him and takes swig out of the beautiful concoction Gil gave him, "but they haven't exchanged numbers."

"What?!" exclaims Gilbert, and the Spaniard finds it hard not to blush. Why is everyone so surprised? He just never had the need to use his phone for Lovino! They always met up at the balcony anyway! "How the hell do you guys communicate?"

"The old-fashioned way," teases the Frenchman. He nudges Antonio with his elbow and wags his eyebrows. "Late-night talks outside their balconies."

"Here, just—here," Gilbert bites off the grin as he slips his phone out from his pocket. "Take Lovino's number. Call him."

"But what if—"

"You won't know," the German interjects, "if you don't try. So just do it."

Antonio places the number in his phone, and thanks Gilbert and Francis. "I'll take my leave then," he says before heading out of the bar.

The blonde Frenchman puffs out a hefty sigh. "Antonio forgot his bags in my car. Should I stop by later or what?"

"I think you can leave it in front of his apartment. I don't think anyone would take any interest in teacher shit," Gil laughs.

* * *

His phone rings just as he took his helmet off, and he glances at the unknown contact. Lovino swipes his thumb across the screen, "Hello?"

"Lovino!"

His spine tingled in surprise. "Antonio? H—"

"I got your number from Gilbert, I'm sorry!" Antonio exclaims from the other end of the line. He sounds out of breath. "I didn't know how else to contact you, and we never see each other anymore—"

"Wait, slow down, what are you—"

"Lovino, where are you?" he asks. The Italian can hear cars in the background. Where's Antonio? He slides off his motorcycle and slings his bag over his shoulder and begins walking towards the apartment complex. "Home."

"Okay—please, wait for m—" A loud thud echoes across the line and the Italian flinches. He can't hear the bastard. Huh? He furrows his eyebrows and his stomach plummets.

"Antonio? Hello?" Lovino pulls the phone away from his ear and looks at it in confusion. He puts it back against his ear. "Hello? Hey, I can't—"

"Lo siento," cries Antonio a second later, "I dropped it on the ground! Lo siento, Lovi, I'm really—"

"It's okay, bastard," he cuts. His gut uncoils. "Well, I'll go now. I have to make dinner. Just knock on my door when you're back," he adds, feeling his heart go up to his throat.

"Okay," the Italian can hear the smile in his voice. "I'll see you later!"

* * *

What's he going to tell Antonio? _I'm sorry for ruining your night?_ That's a shitty apology. Well, he can always just feed the constantly hungry male with his pasta and just hope that he can be perceptive and understand that it's Lovino's nonverbal way of apologizing. Right? God, is he hoping for too much?

The sauce is almost finished when he hears the knocks on his door, and soon his heart is in his ears and his throat, and the Italian nearly runs to the door. His chest feels so tight. He doesn't think he's ready to see Antonio. Ever.

But then he sees Antonio's stupid face in a blur when he opens the door, and he's suddenly trapped in a tight hug. "Lovinoooo," the bastard greets and pulls away. He gets another glance at Antonio's face before the stupid Spaniard brings him in a hug again.

The younger male isn't aware that he has his arms around Antonio until the Spanish musician pulls away, _for real_ this time, and Lovi is wondering why they're still somehow attached. He drops his arms. "Hi," he greets and steps around the taller male to shut his door. "I made pasta."

"For me?" asks Antonio, complete with wide eyes and raised eyebrows.

"For the both of us," he corrects him as he rolls his eyes, and he leads the way into his kitchen. The pasta is ready in one bowl. All he needs to finish is this sauce.

Peace surrounds them, but it's not the typical kind. Antonio takes a seat on one of the chairs around the tiny dining table and puts his elbows on the table as he watches Lovino. He doesn't know what to say. What should he say? He should've thought of some kind of script!

"About that night…" begins Lovino.

"Oh, it's fine!" the Spaniard immediately replies.

"Shut up, let me explain myself," the prodigy remarks, timid but so, so angry. "I'm sorry I ran away. I'm," he doesn't turn around. He continues swirling the sauce with a ladle, "sorry I avoided you."

Antonio waits again, because he thinks there's something more to it than this. Something more in his apologies. But Lovino doesn't say anything, and maybe…

The Spaniard bites back a sigh. He smiles. "It's okay. I can wait."

Lovino's eyes widen and his shoulders stiffen, but then he exhales hugely and relaxes his body. His grip loosens around the ladle. "Thank you."

* * *

Their nights at the balcony resume.

And the music comes back.

But they want more.

They want _more_.

* * *

"Hey Lovino?"

"Hmm?"

He doesn't know what makes him do it, what makes him say it, but, "I really like you."

…

He strums his guitar strings to fill the quiet, to make sense of why he's doing this. What _is_ he doing? He isn't simply confessing to the little Italian prodigy; there's something more to this. He wants more. He wants Lovino to depend on him. "Maybe I even love you."

He wants the Italian to show him everything.

Lovino turns his gaze on him, mind racing, pulse reaching an all-time high, and Antonio stares back. He can see the pink on his cheeks and imagines how hot his face might feel. The Spaniard smiles easily, and the Italian blushes harder.

"I want to make you happy."

His left hand is tingling and it goes limp, but his expression doesn't change. The music stops. His heart feels light.

"Trust me, Lovi."

* * *

He knows that practicing his music won't do anything. He has to do something.

* * *

"The school year's finally done!" Antonio sings when Lovino sits down on his balcony with two glasses and a tall bottle of wine. He hands one to Antonio across the balcony, and pours him a glass.

"Congratulations," he sends him a half-smile and pours himself some wine as well. Feliciana sent him some Italian cookies, which taste best when paired with red wine, and he wonders if Antonio would like it. Probably not. It took the Italian awhile to get used to its taste.

"I get to work at the shop for more hours now! And perform at your bar more regularly," he grins broadly. He takes a sip of the red wine. He recognizes the flavor, but all the wines blend in his mind so he never remembers what he's drinking. He takes a seat in his usual spot and glances out into the dark night. "Are you going to perform with me next time?"

Lovino takes a deep breath. The Spaniard sees the hesitation.

"I mean there's always—"

"I have anxiety," Lovino tells him. He sits down and places his wine glass on the space next to him, and then he winds his fingers together. Agitated. Uneasy. "That's why I can't," he pauses to swallow around the lump in his throat, "that's why I can't play." He lets his nails scratch along the skin of his hands and he chews on his lower lip.

He continues.

"Performance anxiety. Stage fright, whatever the fuck you call it." He picks at the callous by his pinky. Sometimes he plays string instruments like the violin and the cello. And the guitar. But he hasn't touched a guitar since Antonio entered his life. "I can't breathe and I freeze, and I just," he stops when his voice cracks. His heart is scampering in his chest.

And there is only _silence_.

Silence.

Sil—

"I have carpal tunnel syndrome," Antonio says with a laugh. It sounds choked. The Italian turns to him in astonishment, and sees the other musician wiping at his face. He's crying. "I have carpal tunnel syndrome," he cries some more. "I'm sorry—lo siento, I'm sorry—oh Dio I'm crying—and you have anxiet—"

"How bad is it?" Lovino asks, turning his body towards the Spaniard across from him, separated by the stupid railings. He wants to jump over there. Maybe he should. They're pretty close anyway.

"Pretty bad," Antonio says after a second, sniffling, stifling his sobs.

"Do you need surgery?" the younger male asks. "That's why your hand goes limp, right?"

He nods his head to both questions, wiping his eyes with the back of his hands. "I'm saving up f-for the surgery and therapy—"

"You shouldn't aggravate your hand so much," softly scolds the Italian. He clears his throat, but his lips can't stop trembling and his vision is blurry. "You're working too hard, damn it."

"Can I come over there?" asks Antonio. He looks to Lovino, and the Italian nods. They stand up, and the prodigy is about to enter his apartment to unlock his front door when he sees the Spaniard unsteadily climbing over his balcony.

"What the fuck are you— _Antonio_!" Lovi sucks in a sharp breath and Antonio lands on his balcony with a thud, knees and hands colliding on the surface. "Y—why the hell did you do that? What were you _thinking_?" he demands gruffly, though his touch is gentle. He helps the Spaniard get back on his feet, and he has a clearer sight of his face.

It's wet with tears.

He almost breaks down. "You could've died! You could've fallen off like that stupid brownie you tried giving me all those months ago," he yells. He pounds a fist on Antonio's chest and glares up at him. The bastard's crying again. "And why the hell are you still playing your guitar? You should lay off it, stop—stop fucking aggravating your hand! You can potentially—"

Lovino whimpers. He bows his head and he can feel Antonio's chest shivering with muted wails. "You might never be able to play again."

"I know, Lovi," the Spaniard says. He wipes at his eyes. "I know. I'm sorry, lo siento," he cries. "I'm sorry. So sorry."

"Shut up, don't apologize. J-just—how much do you need?"

It doesn't take a while for Antonio to understand what the Italian's implying. "Lovino—oh, Lovi, I can't—don't give me the money you earned. I can—"

"No, you need this. Stupid. Just tell me how much." Lovino looks up again, and his gaze can't stop looking into Antonio's. He's so broken. His eyes are bloodshot, his mouth is crooked, he has premature wrinkles near his eyes. The music isn't there to protect them anymore.

This is reality.

"Lovino, I can't possibly—"

"Yes, you can."

"But Lovino—"

The Italian grabs his face and presses a kiss on his lips. Firm, soft, salty, wet.

 _Breathe_.

"I like you."

 _Breathe_. He doesn't break their gaze.

"Trust me."

 _I'm breathing_.

"Please, Antonio."

* * *

"Can I kiss you?"

"Just do it, stupid."

* * *

"I can't do it, Antonio—I just," the Italian trembles and laughs. He's so, so, so pathetic. "I can't do it."

"It's okay." The Spanish musician rubs Lovino's shoulders soothingly, thumbs making circles on the back of his shoulder blades. "I'll be here."

* * *

"You don't need the ashtray anymore, do you?"

"Nope," Antonio replies happily as he tunes the guitar with his left hand. It's been three weeks since his surgery, and his therapy has been going well. And he hasn't touched his guitar in a while. His hand still feels weak. "But I'm keeping it anyway."

"Hm? What for?" asks Lovino, watching him from across his balcony. He's standing up, resting his elbows on the top of his railings while Antonio plays a little with his guitar.

"Well, you gave it to me as a present, so," he looks up and smiles cheekily. "I'll keep it."

"Y—you're so stupid, damn it," Lovino blushes.

* * *

 _Breathe_.

"It's okay, Lovi," Antonio reassures him again, pulling the younger male in his arms. Lovino is only shaking a little, and it's better than all the other times the Italian tried performing for him.

He doesn't speak and simply returns the hug. Lovino buries his face in his shoulder and squeezes the taller male. He sighs heavily. "I'm sorry."

The Spaniard kisses the top of his head. "It's okay."

* * *

That's all he needs.

Antonio.

"I really, really like you," Lovino mumbles against his neck when they're taking a siesta in Antonio's apartment.

And the Spaniard thinks that it's the most beautiful thing he has ever heard from Lovino.

* * *

"Lovino, you did it!" exclaims Antonio. He all but lifts Lovino from his seat and holds him close, peppering his face with kisses as the younger male laughs and drapes his arms and legs around the bastard.

"I did it," he chuckles. His heart is beating so hard and so fast in his chest, but he finished performing a piece in front of Antonio _after so long_ , and he's breathing properly, and he didn't stop, and he played something, and he did it _he did it_.

"That was beautiful, Lovi, I—"

"Jesus, Antonio, your hand! Don't put too much strain on it," Lovino jumps away from the other musician and tenderly examines his left hand. "You're still recovering! Why the hell would you pick me up and—"

"I love you Lovino," he states out of the blue, steps closer and brings their faces together. "I love you."

* * *

"How did I do?" Antonio asks when he slides onto the stool. His hand is better, a little weak, but it's better, and it's all thanks to the lovely bartender moving his way.

Vivid green eyes shine with thinly-veiled glee, though his mouth only turns up slightly at the corners. "Not bad." He leans on the counter with a softer smile and the Spaniard reaches over to brush his lips across his cheek.

Antonio catches him unaware and he finds satisfaction in seeing the redness on Lovino's cheeks. "Thank you."

"Stop doing that in public," he demands without any true anger, but the Spanish musician knows that Lovino enjoys it as much as he does.

* * *

He finally remembers the notes and moves his right hand across the keys, and when he finishes, he moves his gaze to the Italian next to him, who's simply watching him quietly. Focused.

Antonio grins widely, the corners of his eyes wrinkling. "I remembered it this time! Not bad, huh?"

"I love you," Lovino says, leaning closer. He blinks, dragging his gaze from his eyes to his nose to his lips, and the other is moving closer and closer and closer, "I love you," he repeats softly. And then they're kissing, pulling each other closer and making the kiss sweet and so full of the pieces they needed.

They found each other.

* * *

"That's a really beautiful piece, Lovi," Antonio hums, mesmerized by Lovino's skills, mesmerized by his handsome and slender fingers.

"You want me to teach you?" he asks when he finishes, and there's the same never-ending peace that surrounds them even after Lovino finished playing.

"If you don't mind," the Spaniard says. He leans down and kisses his cheek.

"I don't mind," Lovino smiles. He takes his left hand and twines their fingers together.

They're complete.

* * *

 **a/n:** Finished! Constructive criticism is highly appreciated! I hope the ending wasn't bad! Thanks so much for reading! :*


End file.
